


Spy for the Portrait

by Sivvus



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, The Immortals - Tamora Pierce, The Song of the Lioness - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Apprentice - Freeform, Art, Caught, Complete, Drawing, Extended Scene, F/M, Friendship, Funny, Legends, Missing Scene, Painting, Portraits, Romance, Secrets, Spells & Enchantments, Spy - Freeform, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sivvus/pseuds/Sivvus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regarding the unfortunate exploits of a young artist hired to secretly paint the Wild Mage, and the subsequent suspicion of said spy, culminating in a confusion of creative chaos. And, naturally, D/N. Short story, complete! My version of the missing scene from before ROTG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How to Poison Your Dragon

People imagine the life of a court artist to be glamorous. Or at least, as Durban thought with a sigh, That's what I hoped! He'd pictured a life of glamorous ladies glittering with jewels, and noble knights who hid their strength behind courtly smiles. He'd imagined the way they would walk the halls, as casually elegant as the portraits that immortalised them. Durban had started his apprenticeship just a month ago, and in that month he had learned one thing:

He was very, very wrong.

He'd learned that much in the first day. Excited to be 'prentice-sworn to the famous Master Rain, weighed down with brushes and canvas and expectations, he'd been sent flying by a woman who was sprinting down the passageway, chased by a flock of starlings. The clatter of falling brushes sent her skidding to a halt, and before he could even react she'd picked up half his things, bundled them back into his arms with a breathless apology, and run off again. He hadn't even had time to ask her name, but his sharp painter's eye caught the colour of her hair and the apologetic laughter in her grey eyes. He described her to his new master when the man asked him for his first impressions of the palace.

"Ah yes, that'd be Mistress Sarrasri." Rain's eyes flickered- a motion which, on a lesser man, might have been described as rolling. Apparently he and the girl were well acquainted. Durban was about to make some pithy reply when the name sunk into his head, dousing the words like ice-water.

"Sarrasri?" he gasped, thinking of the stories his sisters had begged him for, "The wildmage?"

"Indeed."The master steepled his fingers so he could peer over them, his voice dry as he regarded his new protégée. "It is interesting that the first thing you noticed was a girl. Did the intricacies of the unorthodox Gallan architecture elude you?"

"No... I mean, I noticed it, but... I haven't heard legends about carved phoenixes. And they didn't trip over me in the hallway. Sir." Durban realised he was being impertinent and bit his tongue, but it was already too late. The wrinkled old painter's eyes sharpened, and the knot that had been in Durban's throat since he knocked on the office door turned into a lump of coal. As far as first impressions went, he'd probably made better. He was sent to the palace library with the assurance that there were perfectly interesting legends involving Gallan carvings, and that if he couldn't find them he could always return home to look for them there.

So it wasn't with a particularly warm heart that he began his work in the palace. His job was mostly to prime canvasses and block-paint walls ready for the master to add details to the murals there. The fumes from the pigments and oils made his head ache, and although the palace was never really under threat from the attacking Immortals the distant noises made his head hurt. He could never just daydream himself into the guise of a great artist, preparing his own canvas for another masterpiece- there was always a scream or a crash of metal to draw him back. True, his sisters had pleaded with him to watch the people around him, and write to them about the heroes of Tortall, but after Rain's warm welcome he found it better to keep his eyes to the task. The Giantkiller could have waltzed down the hallway with a tapestry rail and he wouldn't have cared.

He was perched on a ladder, dabbing grey paint onto a plaster wall with a soft cloth when a shrill whistle made him look down. He couldn't see anything. He sighed, thinking that one of the pages was playing a trick. They'd done it before, hiding his brushes or dumping mud in the rinse bucket, and he'd gotten used to it. Whistling was a new one, but...

...there, it happened again! He didn't make an obvious movement this time, but looked down out of the very edge of his eye. When he saw what was whistling at him he gasped and dropped the cloth, gripping at the ladder in surprise. Even from this angle it was clear that he was looking at a dragon. Its whistle had been cheerful, but it turned into a furious squawk when the dabbing rag fell on its upturned nose, soaking it in paint. Rolling onto its back like a puppy, the creature tore at the cloth until it fell in pieces around it on the floor, and then kicked at the ladder, muttering darkly to itself. It wasn't until the dragon started sniffing at one of the rags that Durban snapped to, and climbed down the ladder so quickly it nearly fell over.

"No- no, little dragon thing, don't eat that!" He said frantically. The dragon looked up once. The expression clearly said, You threw this thing at me, now it is mine. With a slightly smug shrug of the shoulders the creature sniffed one final time at a scrap, and swallowed it in a single gulp.

Durban grabbed the dragon, forgetting that such creatures have teeth for long enough to try to prise its jaws open. The dragon pulled away, shaking its head rapidly like a horse, and snapped at his fingers enough for a fair warning. The painter stared at the creature, almost in tears, wondering if turning it upside down and shaking it would make it spit the cloth up. He didn't want his career as a court artist to end with one poisoned dragon. He tried to go for the creature's jaws again, ignoring the warning hiss. Perhaps he could prise those teeth open with a paintbrush...?

"What are you doing?" A heavy weight crashed into the side of his head, sending him staggering back into the side of the ladder. This time it did fall over, the clattering sound echoing alongside the furious shout. When the stars cleared from his eyes his arms were empty, and a girl was glaring at him. She held the dragon easily, closely, and the reptilian eyes matched hers in ferociousness.

Durban realised he was a dead man painting. He held up his hands, dropping the brush. "Your dragon- it ate the cloth! It has to spit it out!"

The anger in the girl's eyes was replaced by bafflement in one swift blink. "What?" She asked flatly.

"I poisoned your dragon! It's eaten lead- you know, in the paint? I didn't mean to do it!"

"Idiot." It took Durban a few desperate breaths before he realised the woman wasn't speaking to him. The tone was too affectionate. He dared to look up, to see her scolding the dragon. "Have you been scaring painters again?"

The dragon made an apologetic peep and then looked around at Durban. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn the dratted thing was smirking at him. The woman put the dragon down and wiped her hands on her tunic, leaving trails of grey paint. She smiled crookedly, looking slightly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry. Kit can eat most anything. I think she likes the way people panic, so she lays in wait for new painters. She's played the same trick about five times on Master Rain; she kind of staggers around a corner retching dramatically, and then runs off before he can send someone to find me. I don't think she expected you to pick her up, though!"

"Next time I won't. Picking up dragons seems to give me a headache." Durban rubbed his head rather melodramatically and returned the awkward smile, waving away her stumbling apology. "It's nice to meet you again, Mistress Sarrasri. My name's Durban."

"Don't you have a surname? And have we met before?" Daine bit her lip and glanced down at the dragon, who was busy leaving deliberate paw prints across the floor. Durban nodded.

"You ran into me. We weren't formally introduced or anything. And my master says I don't deserve to have a surname until I can draw ten species of tree without reference. So I'm just Durban."

She laughed unexpectedly, and all of the awkwardness fled. "Well, I can't do that either! So I guess you should call me Daine." She grinned when he bowed formally and returned him the most awkward curtsey he'd ever seen in his life. It seemed impolite to ask the heroine of Pirate's Swoop if she was teasing him or genuinely ungraceful, so Durban bit the comment back. But when he looked down the dragon managed a more flowing movement than she had. The thought made him smile.

It took him nearly an hour to scrub the footprints out of the floorboards after the unusual pair left, but the menial task didn't bother him as much as it might have done before. There was something so unpretentious about both of them- as if one didn't know she was a dragon, and the other was completely unaware that people sang songs about her in taverns. He'd thought, based on their first meeting, that heroes must simply charge through the world if the normal people were paving stones beneath their feet. But if even the dragon could seem normal, then...

He was brought back to earth with a bump when Master Rain arrived to yell at him. Thanks to his daydreaming and slow scrubbing, hardly any of the wall had been primed ready to paint on. The master's voice hesitated for a moment when he spied a leftover paw print on the floor and guessed what had happened, but that didn't halt his tirade for more than a minute.

"In fact," he continued, with a sudden glint in his eye, "If you're getting distracted by the wildmage then perhaps your new task will be to your liking. How's your portrait work, young man? Needs practice, hmm?"

"Portraits?" Durban gaped at the man, almost shocked beyond words. Of course he could draw portraits- he'd had training before he'd won this prestigious apprenticeship, after all- but it was a fact of palace life that the trainee artists never, ever got to draw portraits until they'd proven themselves. For the first year it was strictly backgrounds: painting trees and skies and maybe the face of a peasant in a mural if they were very, very lucky. But Rain was nodding, that wicked glint still in his eye.

"Yes, a portrait. I think that you need practice. And it just so happens that I've received a commission for a portrait of our mutual, dragon-infested acquaintance. Naturally, you can't paint the final thing- you'd foul it up utterly, wouldn't you?" he waited for the obedient nod before he continued. "But some reference sketches would be good practice for you, and I'm sure I'd find one of them useful in some small way."

"Thank you, sir!" Durban wasn't sure if he was supposed to feel honoured or insulted. He knew exactly what the man was doing- making him do all the hard work, and preparing to take the credit- but somehow he didn't mind. It was eclipsed by the idea that somehow he could do something real. But the master wasn't finished yet. Waving away the thanks benevolently, he beckoned his apprentice closer.

"Now, there's a small catch, lad. Our very generous commissioner doesn't want the girl bothered by sittings or by being stared at by greasy-eared graduates. And I don't want her dragon getting wind that we're painting her and loitering in my studio like the lazy, paint-eating lizard it really is. So you're going to draw her, but- are you listening, boy? – You're not going to let her know that you're doing it. Got it?"

Durban stared at him. This close, he could see the whisker jumping on the man's cheek at every word. "How on earth do I do that? Sir."

The man made an expansive gesture and stepped back. "I don't care. I mean, if you do it wrong then obviously you'll never paint another portrait again. Ever. So I think this would be a good time to use some of your creativity."

"Thanks," the apprentice muttered drily as his master wandered amiably off.

So, here it was: a month since he'd arrived, and somehow he'd been roped into spying on a girl so that his master could earn some money, and, if he was very lucky, stop some paint from being eaten.

How heroic!


	2. Putting down Roots

Durban couldn't move his feet.

He thought of the thousands of wonderful ways this could have happened. He could have fallen in some glue, or in a vat of molasses. A floor could have been varnished and then left unattended, ready to snare unsuspecting artists and leave them stranded or shoeless on their future walks. A spidren web, flung from the heat of battle, could have bound his toes to the floor. Perhaps he'd just been sitting still too long, and his feet had gone to sleep. His favourite reason was that he was dreaming- some kind of nightmare, true, but one where he could wake up and wriggle his toes again.

He thought about that for a moment. He felt like he had never really appreciated his toes enough. That seemed important now. Because this wasn't a dream. If he ever got to wiggle those pink digits again he would kiss every single one of them.

The people in the palace had a remarkable way of staring at you. It wasn't even threatening, because none of them needed to be. The same look would seem perfectly affable coming from a doddering granny or a smiling child. But these people smiled because, if they were angry at you, you'd probably be too dead to see the expression on their face.

Even the man's voice was perfectly pleasant. His magic glued the artist's feet to the floor as if he could keep him there forever, but all he said was, "Thank you for waiting for me."

Durban blinked and couldn't help glaring at the man. "You stuck my feet down!"

The man looked subtly disappointed. "No, just your shoes. I simply assumed you were being polite, since you could have left whenever you wanted. I certainly didn't force you to stay."

"No..." the boy started to argue, and then bit back the word and turned it into an agreement. "No, of course you didn't, sir."

"Of course not." The man smiled encouragingly but made no attempt to undo the spell. Durban wondered if unlacing his shoes would be undiplomatic, and decided he would rather stay stuck forever than try to find out. It wasn't like he was in a hidden place- he was simply behind a tree in one of the palace gardens. If he was stuck forever then surely every now and again one of the servants would bring him some food. Rain would probably even take time from his busy schedule to come outside and yell at him. All this seemed preferable than making the Black Mage think he was impolite. The taller man was leaning casually against another tree, barely even watching his trapped quarry, but obviously waiting for him to speak. Durban cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry, sir, but... I seem to have forgotten what I was waiting to speak to you about. I'm sure you can remember," he stammered, automatically slipping into his toadying voice. The voice had a lot of practice in the past month, but what seemed to work with Master Rain seemed incredibly insincere now. He didn't know what kind of game the mage was playing, but...

"You were waiting to tell me why you've been following Daine around," the man said brightly.

Ah.

The painter thought for a minute that his eyelids were stuck open alongside his feet, and then found the nerve to blink again. Just fear, not magic. When he decided to be an artist as a child it was because he thought artists would never be put in these kind of terrifying situations. But... twice in two weeks? At least this one didn't look inclined to hit him over the head with a bucket.

He stared at his toes. "I'm Durban... I... I'm Master's Rain's apprentice." He mumbled, "'n he sent me to draw some sketches. I don't know who for, though."

He was looking down, so he completely missed the expression on the other man's face. It would have inspired a thousand sketches if he had: an impossible- to- capture-look of amusement, bewilderment and embarrassment. If Durban had lived at the palace for longer, or looked up more quickly, many of his preconceptions about the people who lived there might have been changed. He might have begun to understand how the games which he found so terrifying were simply life for these people, who lived for so long in a humming beehive of rumour and whispers that playing these games came as second nature to them. What the artist read as a vaguely affable, threatening expression was simply the blank look most of them used to take in the ridiculous and trivial things that were constantly happening.

Durban might have seen this, if he had looked up, but he didn't. When he eventually dared to look up, the other man's face was carefully blank.

"I'm sorry, sir." The painter whispered, shuffling his feet. "I didn't realise you'd be angry."

The mage made a choked sound and turned it quickly into a cough. When he looked up his eyes were sparkling, more amused than dangerous. "How long have you been doing this for, this sketching?" He asked. The boy bit his lip as he thought, more relaxed but still utterly cowed. The Black Mage laughing at you was really no more reassuring than the Black Mage rooting your feet to the ground.

"Umm, a few weeks?" He chewed on the lip, trying to think clearly when his whole mind was screaming at him, Just bow to the man and run away! He ignored it. "Er, there was a few days when I was drawing in the great hall, but no-one wants a portrait of themselves eating soup, and then there was the days when I tried drawing when she was working in the stables, but the ponies kicked me, sir, quite hard in the... er, the hay barrels. Good aim, they have. So I stopped that, too."

There was now no doubt that the other man was laughing at him. Durban found himself getting angry. It wasn't every man who could say he'd been kicked in the hay barrels for the good of his art, and he certainly wasn't going to get laughed at for it! But the laughter was infectious, and his anger dripped away as he saw the funny side of it too.

"Did you not think that the ponies would have told her you were there? When they got bored of kicking you, I mean," The mage amended, wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye. The artist's answer set him off another flurry of laughter,

"They didn't seem to get bored, sir." Durban smiled wryly and held up a hand in defeat, "But yes, after a few days I caught on to that one. So I started coming here. It was either that or the wall, and I don't want to get shot at by Immortals."

"Very wise of you," The man said solemnly. "If you don't mind my asking: how did you find out that we come here?"

Durban bit his lip again, realising that he'd been scuffing his feet in the dirt for a good few minutes now and hadn't seen the mage take the spell off. Now he thought about it, running away from one of the people who were keeping the palace safe from the invading creatures would be rather rude. He supposed he should feel honoured that the man had spent valuable magic sticking his shoes to the ground, really.

"There's kind of... an unwritten rule." He said reluctantly. "Everyone says- you and Mistress Sarrasri work so hard, and fight off the monsters, and every day you still find a few minutes to meditate together, or do mage lessons... well, anyway, everyone knows to stay away from here if they know you're here. They figure you deserve a bit of peace."

"Huh." The other man looked intrigued. "I didn't know that. I wonder who started it?" He looked sideways at the artist. "Who are you going to be in trouble with, for spying on us, then?"

"Whoever they are, they're less scary than Master Rain!" Durban said fervently, and then clapped a hand over his mouth. The mage laughed, but it was sympathetic rather than mocking.

"Poor you," he said. "Look, I'm sorry for scaring you. I just saw you hiding behind the tree, staring, and..." he shrugged, the movement slightly too rehearsed. "I guess I just get a little protective sometimes."

"Sir... Are you going to tell her?" Durban felt like he was stuck to the ground again, although this time there was no magic involved. The weight of his task had suddenly fallen on him, like stones: he'd failed, he'd been spotted, and there was no way this man wouldn't tell her. Master Rain was going to tell him to shove his paintbrushes up his least aesthetically pleasing orifice. His career was over. He could almost taste despair. Somewhere in this haze of dramatic self-pity he was aware that the man was speaking.

"And spoil your fun? Why would I do that?" There was an odd lightness in the mage's voice. For a second the artist couldn't hear the reply, just the rushing in his ears, and then he realised that his worst nightmares hadn't come true... yet. He blinked at the mage, expecting him to take back the words, but he didn't. Instead he smiled the same strange, light smile and asked, "Can I see your sketches?"

"They're not very good," was the automatic reply, and he could see in the other man's expression exactly what he thought of that gem of an excuse. Without another word he picked up his satchel and handed it over, mentally cringing at the thought of some of the drawings in there as the mage sat down easily on the grass and gently took out the sheaf of paper. Maybe the charcoal will be smudged beyond all recognition, Durban thought hopefully.

No such luck. The man studied them all levelly, not speaking at all, giving the same attention to rough sketches as to more detailed ones. He only broke this pattern twice, both times to draw a piece of paper out of the stack and lay it on the grass beside him, careful not to smudge any of the others when he did so. Durban squinted at the two drawings he'd pulled away- he couldn't see any real difference between them and the other drawings he had made of the girl meditating. He had used the unusual minutes of stillness to draw in more detail, but he had tens of such sketches.

The man got to the end of the sheaf and looked up, seeing the look of confusion on the other's face. He evened up the corners of the stack of paper, nodding for Durban to sit on the grass next to him before he started speaking.

"These are good," he said easily, the cliché words sounding genuine. "Some of them are very good."

"What about those ones?" The artist nodded at the forlorn two, left abandoned on the grass. The mage smiled reassuringly and handed him back the satchel.

"They are also good, don't get me wrong," he said, "You just can't paint from them. I'd hoped that you would paint my friend with her eyes _open_ , if I'm honest, but I suppose she does tend to move about a lot. It must be difficult to draw her."

Durban gaped at him, the folder sliding from his knee, forgotten. "It was you who commissioned the painting?" He demanded, almost throwing up his hands in exasperation. "But... you could get her to sit for a painting! Why all this secrecy?"

"She doesn't have time to pose for a picture, and she'd think it was silly." The man not-quite lied, his voice evasive as he changed the subject back to the two discarded drawings, "As for those, if she's asleep it's because she's tired, not because she's asking to be drawn. It's kind of rude to draw someone when they're asleep, don't you think?"

The boy flushed, stammering over the mistake. The mage was right- it was terribly rude, worse even than spying in a way. He felt a perverse sense of pride in the midst of the embarrassment: apparently his sketches were correct enough that you could see the subtle difference between sleep and meditation! Still, it was a wretched mistake. "I'm so sorry, I thought she was meditating! I thought that was what you do."

The man grinned and stretched his arms upwards in a yawn, acknowledging the apology with good humour. "Sometimes a nap is more useful."

"But you're her teacher. Don't you mind?" Durban realised his voice had gotten very high pitched. He couldn't imagine how terrible his fate would be if he dozed off when he was supposed to be drawing or studying. He wouldn't put it past Master Rain to sneak into his rooms and yell at his dreams for being badly drawn at 3am. The mage had laughed at his last outburst, but this one made him return to that odd, closed-off expression.

"Yes," he echoed softly, "I'm her teacher. But much more than that, I'm her friend." He linked his hands behind his head and leant against the tree trunk, staring up through the branches at the twilight sky. When he spoke again, it was almost to himself. "There's something liberating about talking to strangers, don't you think? You told me about Rain, and I won't repeat it. Do you really want me to tell you about Daine?" He glanced sideways and saw that the artist was rapt, leaning forward as if he was listening to the knowledge of the gods. The sight was both worrying and humorous. Somehow he pitied the poor apprentice- it didn't sound like he was having a good time of it, and the palace was a cold home to people who didn't have anyone to talk to. The man's ears were full of stories and not much else.

"Speaking as her teacher, then," the mage started evenly, "No, I don't mind. She works incredibly hard. It doesn't take much skill to throw fireballs at hurrocks, but constantly keeping track of all the loyal immortals and all the animals that are helping us is very, very difficult. I'm proud of her. And she doesn't need my teaching any more, but at least I can still get her to take half an hour out every day and tune their voices out. And so, if she falls asleep," he shrugged and smiled slightly at the leaves. "So much the better, I guess. She spent the first few weeks arguing with me that she should be working."

Durban tried to imagine any of his teachers saying something like that and failed miserably. He doubted old Rain had ever been proud of another living soul in his life, much less said as much frankly to a total stranger. He bit his lip, unconsciously glancing at the drawings and wondering if they would ever be good enough.

"This might be an odd question, sir," he said hesitantly, "But... how could you tell the difference between the drawings? If you mixed those two back into the pile I wouldn't be able to pick them out again, and I drew them!"

The mage looked confused for a moment, as if he hadn't anticipated the question, and glanced down at the two drawings he'd confiscated. Unbidden, a warmth crept into his eyes. He picked up one of the drawings and handed it to the other man, gently indicating a few charcoal lines.

"See, she smiles when she sleeps." He said quietly. "You captured it beautifully."

Durban stared at his own drawing, marvelling at how this man knew the tiniest detail- something he'd barely thought about as he marked it into the coarse grain of the paper. But as much as the man's words made him proud of his work, he realised the mage wasn't really speaking about the drawings at all.

"You really love her, don't you?" He said, barely aware that he'd thought out loud until the other man looked at him sharply, eyes narrowing. Before the mage could snap out whatever reply he was struggling with, a warning bell rang from one of the battlements. And that was that. With an abrupt nod of farewell and without another word, the Black Mage scrambled to his feet and left.

Durban stayed in the garden. A few weeks ago he would have run to his room, excited to write one of his daily letters to his sisters. The first time he'd seen the queen he'd written pages and pages, his writing spider-like in its haste... and he'd only seen her for a fleeting instant, walking down a corridor. But this was different. His mind was no longer cheering, I've had a spell cast on me by the Black Mage, it was running around in circles. The man had said he wouldn't repeat the conversation to anyone, and seemed to expect the same courtesy, but even if he hadn't mentioned it Durban didn't think he would have spoken a word.

No letters, then.

He stayed in the garden until the dew fell, listening to the sounds of battle and wondering if a better artist might have been able to see what that final nod really meant.


	3. If I Die a Coward, It's the Dragon's Fault

The next week brought an unexpected bonus: Master Rain fainted in his studio. The rising spring heat and the paint fumes probably had more to do with it than ill health, but nonetheless the old artist enthroned himself in a canopy of cushions and summoned his apprentice to his chamber. There was nothing for it, apparently, but complete bed rest. In the meantime, his work must not suffer- there were commissioners waiting!- and they must not know that the great painter was unwell. What if his hands should shake while painting an essential detail? Imagine the horror, if Lady Criola's beauty spot should accidentally shake its way into a moustache!

Durban privately thought that such a mistake would make the frankly sycophantic painting more accurate, but as always he said nothing. It was clear what he was agreeing to: taking over all of the work, none of the money, and none of the credit. He didn't think Rain was any weaker than he'd ever been, and from the smug look in the man's eyes he realised that Rain knew his apprentice had worked out he was faking. But what was the point in arguing?

And so, a few days later, Durban found himself alone in the studio of the most famous artist in Tortall, adding the final touches to canvases which, a few weeks ago, he had only been allowed to prepare. Every day he took his work in to Rain's room to be lamented over, but ultimately approved with a curt dismissive nod. He worked his way through the list of commissions, gradually relaxing into his new role. This was what he'd come to the palace for, after all, and he could take pride in his work even if Rain was going to take credit for every single brushstroke.

He read the details of the next painting with a sudden jolt. He'd been so busy for the past week that he'd put the portrait of the wildmage out of his mind. Taking out his folder of drawings to work from was like waking up. For the first time, he was working on his own painting- not something Rain had designed first, or painted the details for, but something he could be utterly in control of. The commission specified a tiny canvas size, and he took out his finest brushes with something close to glee. This was going to be fun!

Durban was completely engaged in the painting over the next few days- so engaged, in fact, that once again he failed to notice the whistling intruder in the room until the noise had degenerated into an annoyed mutter. He quickly washed the brush he was using and put it down, not putting it past the irritating animal to deliberately jog the table. As slowly as he dared, he peered under the table.

The dragon peered back up at him. When she saw that it was the younger painter and not the one she habitually teased, she made an annoyed sound and padded out from her hiding place.

"Were you going to bite my toes, or something?" Durban asked her. He was honestly shocked when she shook her head- he hadn't expected her to understand! Perhaps it was just a reflex reaction, like a dog. He thought it best not to test it- it would be difficult explaining to anyone who came into the room why he was chatting away to a lizard. Besides, Kitten had already pranced off, head held high as she made a regal assessment of the room's contents. As soon as she thought the painter wasn't watching her, the regal act disappeared and left genuine curiosity. She'd never explored this room before! The crotchety old man who smelled of nettle tea had a broom which he chased her out with, and it was rather undignified to be swept out with the dust!

She whistled softly to herself and disappeared behind a stack of raw canvasses. Durban wondered if he should rescue the frames from being scratched- or, did dragons really breathe fire? He didn't know. A cloud of dust was disturbed from behind the frames, and he held his breath as the creature snuffled loudly, but the resulting noise sounded more like a puppy sneezing than a ball of fiery death being produced. She didn't stay behind the canvasses long; a skulking mouse cued a delighted chase, and he saw that Kitten was careful to avoid crashing into anything when she ran. He smiled at the sight and left her to it, returning to the painting with good will.

Barely ten minutes later, the dragon's soft chirp disturbed him from his reverie. He sighed and looked down, keeping hold of the paintbrush this time. The dragon had found a stick of charcoal and was holding it clumsily between her teeth, drawing on the floor and sneezing when the dust drifted up her nostrils. She looked up from the drawing and made an enquiring (if muffled) sound, asking the artist for his opinion.

It looked like a spider had clog-danced in some ink. Rain was going to be thrilled at the state of the floor. Durban smiled at the thought, and Kitten made a delighted noise at this approval. Job done, she put the charcoal down carefully on a clear bit of floor and curled up around one of the artist's feet. He tensed, wondering what game she was playing now, but the dragon simply rested her head on his shoe-clad big toe and shut her eyes. With an impressively tired sigh, she fell asleep.

Wondering if this third time he'd be lucky, Durban returned to his painting. He tried not to think about dragons who might sneeze fire in their sleep. He had almost settled back into the warm calm of his work when the door crashed open, sending papers flying in the sudden draught. A voice accompanied the crash, breathless and apologetic, "Master Rain, I'm so sorry... someone told me they saw Kit coming in here again, but I was on the walls and..." Daine stopped short when she caught sight of the apprentice sitting at the desk and stared, trying to catch her breath.

"Aren't you ever quiet?" Durban demanded, annoyed at this last interruption, and how close he'd come to ruining the painting with one shocked tremble. She bit her lip and looked away, her breathlessness coming dangerously close to a laugh.

"I guess I should apologise to you instead, then. Is Kitten here?" She looked down when he pointed at the sleeping dragon and raised an eyebrow. "Oh. She likes you, I see."

"She's quiet, at least." He said, trying not to sound grumpy about the whole thing. A thought occurred to him with a horrible lurching sickness: the painting! With a swiftness that surprised even him he swept the tiny canvas under a pile of papers. Two thoughts raced through his head, with _Please Gods don't let her see it_ drowning out the usual _Don't let my painting be smudged!_

She didn't notice. The fact disappointed him, somehow; he had expected someone who had her name in legends to be more observant. Perhaps when she was being a legend she didn't get as distracted with picking up snoring dragons. Kitten wriggled her way out of sleep with an un-dragon-like snort and slipped out of the girl's hold, stretching and yawning when she jumped to the floor and greeting the girl with a sleepy peep. Daine shrugged and leaned against the desk.

"You want to walk all the way home then, Kit?" She asked, for all the world like a nursemaid speaking to a disobedient toddler. Durban stood up and smiled, pulling his sleeves down now that there was no danger of getting paint on them.

"It's not that far back to your rooms, is it?" He asked, and then realised how inappropriate that question could be and flushed furiously. Daine didn't notice the slip, but smiled wryly at the comment.

"Not really, but then my legs are longer than hers. And she's been wearing herself out."

"But she's just been exploring..." he started, and the girl shook her head impatiently, curls escaping from her hair tie. The artist made a mental note to add the look to one of the sketches.

"No, she keeps a fair few of the immortals away. They can't refuse a dragon's order, but they do argue. She's been sleeping more and more, and..." She bit her lip and then glanced up, a glass-like smile on her face. "Well, you don't need to worry. Pretend I didn't say anything. They won't break through, I promise."

"So I can happily stay in my little oblivious bubble?" The tone was automatic- the exaggerated sarcasm he used when his sisters were trying to change the subject. Daine looked up, her eyes surprised, and then confused.

"Don't you want to think you're safe?"

"I don't like deluding myself," he said stiffly, wondering if he really sounded as ungrateful as he thought he did. He really wasn't ungrateful, he just disliked her acting like he was completely ignorant of the war, or the danger that people fought away every day he lived here, painting his pictures. He still felt like he should explain himself, though: even to his ears he sounded like a cur. "If you're fighting that hard then tell the damn courtiers as much. Don't tell them that they're safe and they shouldn't worry. Even Master Salmalin said..." he stopped abruptly and bit his lip so sharply he could taste blood. Daine had looked faintly mutinous before, but at that she actually took a step back, blinking. Whatever she was thinking, the artist couldn't see it written in her eyes.

"You've spoken to Numair? About Kitten?" She chewed her lip, bewildered. "Why? You don't know us! I can't even remember your blessed name."

Durban stared back at her, thinking frantically. He wished, more than anything, that he could just sink into the floor. And then Kitten decided to make his ordeal a thousand, thousand times worse. Bored of the humans bickering, she'd returned to her charcoal. Unfortunately, the one who smelled of paint had trodden on it with his clumsy human feet, and her masterpiece was reduced to a few crumbs of broken charcoal. Muttering in disgust, she returned to where she'd found it- a leather satchel that was resting against the table. There was no more charcoal, but it did contain a few drawings which she hadn't seen yet. Chattering merrily, she dragged them out with her teeth and stepped back to look at them. When she saw what they were drawings of she peeped once, twice- and then made a squawking noise until Daine looked down. When the girl saw the sketches she blanched and picked up the dragon, holding her defensively and actually stepping away from the painter.

"Have you been following me?" She demanded, accompanied by a chorus of hissing from the dragon.

"That's what Master Salmalin asked me, too." Durban said honestly, spreading his hands in a peace gesture. "Honestly, miss, this isn't what it looks like."

"Not what it looks like!" She laughed incredulously, pacing the room. "You've got drawings of me! You... wait." Her eyes narrowed and she spun around to glare. "Did you say Numair knows about this? You're lying; he would have told me."

"He told me that he wouldn't." Durban rubbed his head automatically, messing up his own hair. It was a childish gesture he'd always had when he was stressed. He was too nervous to lie, but another truth made itself available. "The last time you were angry at me you hit me with a bucket."

She stopped short, eyes still dangerous. "I'm sure I can make do with an easel if you don't stop talking and tell me what's going on!"

"How can I do both?" He asked desperately, his hair now a complete birds-nest. The answering looks from both the girl and the dragon were not encouraging at all, but they both waited for him to answer. He gulped, choked on his words, and then tried again. This time the words tried to throttle him before he could even form them. He shook his head and shrank back to the desk, resting his head in his hands and wondering how painful a weapon an easel could be.

 _My dear sister,_ he wrote in his mind, _I died a coward. It was the dragon's fault._

A soft noise made him look around. Daine, cradling Kitten against one shoulder, was picking up the drawings with her free hand, one by one, and putting them into a neat pile. There were red blotches on her cheeks, remnants of her furious outburst, but she had stopped pacing and was moving with a deliberate calmness. Durban wondered wildly if she was actually calm, or if she was just planning his death. The latter seemed more likely.

"I have a temper," she said eventually, "and I'm sorry for it, but I'm not leaving until you tell me. And I'm keeping these." She indicated the pile of drawings. "What are they, sketching practice?"

Well, in a way that was true, Durban supposed. He nodded mutely. She nodded, still thinking, and then the angry confusion crept back into her soft voice.

"Fine then, they're for practice. But... why me?"

"My sisters..." he croaked, and cleared his throat so he could start again. "They live for stories. You know, the Lady Knight and the Dominion Jewel? All those stories. When I got a place in the palace they asked me for drawings. Of all the people who they hear stories about, you were the one I thought least likely to make me eat my own drawings if you caught me sketching them."

"Are you joking?" The girl smiled crookedly, half incredulous, half relieved. "Did you know that Alanna has a special sword that she trains with when she knows there's someone trying to draw her? It's slightly more impressive-looking, and it's blunt, so at the end of the drill she can chase them off with it. I've never planned that far ahead. People don't try and draw me." She shrugged awkwardly, her smile fading. "To tell the truth, I don't know if I like it."

"Maybe that's why Master Salmalin didn't tell you? He knew you'd dislike it?" Durban offered, making a mental note to never, ever try to draw the Lady Knight. Daine shrugged again, not completely relaxed, but sufficiently unnerved to be frank.

"Maybe. I don't know. He's been acting strangely lately." She glanced up rapidly and smiled tightly, realising she'd spoken out loud. "And that is something you _really_ shouldn't concern yourself about."

He shrugged, wondering how much she suspected. "It's none of my business." She smiled briefly and picked up the drawings, getting ready to leave. He couldn't let her go- this was stupid. Did everyone mess about with their relationships this much, or was this a special kind of confusion reserved for people in this palace?

"Look, Miss Sa... er, Daine..." he said quietly, "It's none of my business, but..." he started to say something else and lost his nerve at the watchful expression in her eyes. He shrugged and tried again. "When Master Salmalin spoke to me, it... it wasn't about Kitten. And he said it wasn't my business either, but someone has to make it their business, or else you'll just be talking yourselves into circles." He thought back over that sentence and winced. "Did that make any sense?"

"No." She smiled, "But thank you for trying." She turned to leave again, but turned back for a second. "Look, you seem like a nice enough person, but you hardly know us. Whatever... whatever you might think is going on, or whatever I might think is going on... it'll take its own time. You don't have to get involved, and I'm nicely asking you _not_ to." The smile didn't waver when she added, "If you do, I might have to go and find that bucket again."


End file.
